


Andromeda

by birdsandivory



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, M/M, Night Terrors, SHEITH - Freeform, Shiro (Voltron) Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, a bit of fluff at the end, dream sequencing abound, dreaming of death, hugs and kisses to heal a sad boy, im just here to hurt you guys, physical injury, post s7 angst, this is a very introspective piece, two boys on a hospital bed, we're going deep into shiros painful mind okay?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-07-12 10:40:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15993500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/birdsandivory/pseuds/birdsandivory
Summary: “Found you.”Keith’s voice is tired - dragging with exhaustion and sleepless nights - but his hands are warm around Shiro’s shoulders, his fingertips are a tender touch as they card through his hair and travel the column of his throat, and they remind him of the war they have finally won.Even in his sleep, he cannot escape the trials of war. But Keith is there, his beacon of hope, holding him close in a hospital bed too small for the both of them.





	Andromeda

**Author's Note:**

> This is ultimately my catharsis. 
> 
> I really hope you all enjoy this piece, because this program has touched me so much and all I want to do now is be able to touch all of you with the way it inspired me.
> 
> I was driven by this pairing's powerful messages across the series, and by a YouTube video with recorded audio of the sound different planets create within their atmosphere. I poured a lot of my heart and soul into each and every word. And I'm praying it comes through the way I'm expecting it to.
> 
> Thank you for reading!

Though stars are capable of peeling flesh, blazing tendrils lapping upon his frantic pulse, he could only think the galaxy startlingly cold.

The soles of his boots touch naught but the rift of the universe’s plane, his body frigid, begging taut limbs to move and warm the muscles that grew sore and stiff over the time he’s been floating listlessly — _alone —_ bereft of the safety his armor provided, staring into an endless darkness lit by a sea of celestial entities.

And, at first, he felt at ease; lulled by the hum of the Black Lion’s gentle stirring, her presence had washed over him like the tenderest of touches, watchful and protective though he is her paladin no more. But with an abrupt severance of their connection, he became lost, the rift carrying him away and into the unforgiving hands of deep space. He can no longer feel the life-giving scorch of the myriad heavenly bodies in his view, only the numbing chill of the dark — nothing keeping him intact as panic settles into the marrow of his bones, aching as he reaches up to claw at his throat, because _why_ is he drifting in the dead of night without oxygen to fill his lungs and carry his blood? _Why_ couldn’t he control the way his muscles spasm as he falls to his knees, nothing below but the very reaches of the sky he had wanted so desperately to fall into when he was a boy — _why_?

It only takes him a moment, gasping and terrified, to realize that he can breathe.

His mind becomes a temple of endless questions; far too fragile to search the maze for answers, and he minds the cracks, unable to step forward for the fear of shattering what is still tethered to reality. Stagnant, the tension in the air dissipates along with his need to fight. Shiro watches the measured way the stars expand and compress mindlessly and without ambition.

It’s funny, how he had thought from the vestiges of home, that they had once been sparkling.

For a moment, it seems one blindingly beautiful illumination is reaching for him; in his daze, its nearly hypnotic smolder compels him to reach back.

The coils touch his fingertips, their ethereal presence becomes his bayard, though it is wrought with shadow despite the way it glows. There is another hand holding it true and he staggers back from the powerful, unearthly vibration of another’s presence, Zarkon’s mighty visage a vile grin as he meets his gaze — nothing but ocre eyes and snapping teeth.

His first instinct is to run.

To _run_ , because he already knows the failure of his plight.

And so, he does, detaches himself from what was once his weapon and his enemy, and looks back only a few ticks later to find himself unfollowed — the momentum flinging him forward still, into the arms of Matt Holt.

The confusion he feels piles, mountainous assemblages of misunderstandings and inaudible interpretations a thin veil of fog within the vestibule of his mind.

His friend smiles gently, inclining his head as he looks to Shiro with fondness, hands the Captain cannot feel brushing invisible stardust from a uniform that is a vice enveloping him; it is far too tight, but he knows it is just his size.

He wishes to comprehend why the other man is there, simpering as though they were having a conversation about old times, but no answers arise. Instead, Matt’s expression becomes that of agony, melting the happiness he exudes — his upturned tiers falling away as he turns to Pidge, who is suddenly before them, holding her chest painted crimson. She grasps for her brother’s arm as she tumbles into him, and Shiro calls for her — they  _both_ do — the buzz of what he thinks to be Saturn’s cry drowning their words.

He is unheard, only a spectator as the Green Lion becomes dust in the vacuum of the solar system.

The image is gone in an instant.

He is lost, already out of touch, and it’s with great pain that he seizes as the paladins of the Yellow and former Blue materialize before him — the pulling flesh of his jaw so tight, a dull ache drums from behind his eyes. He feels the need to shout for them, to warn them of the coming danger he’s witnessed take another of their team, but it is no use — because Lance falls first and there is no one else the Yellow Lion would rather look to as his blood angrily stains the ivory of his armor.

Shiro mourns for them, but the galaxy does not allow him to cry.

And it isn’t until the touch of the Altean breed settles upon the gentle slope of Hunk’s shaking shoulders that he crawls forward desperately, both hands reaching for his companions, only for them to vanish between flesh and prosthesis.

A soundless sob wracks his frame, guttural and deep, the very vines of his body taking a hold of his hollow rib cage; he is suffocating, wondering why he is unable to speak, ears incapable of processing the words he sees the people he loves utter through quivering lips.

It takes an exemplary number of ticks for him to stand then, his body frantically searching in every direction for something he isn’t sure he wants to see, but nothing seems to exist. And though he is a particle in the flow of the broken universe — a tremor in its steady wavelength — he is relieved.

Until a familiar call of his name chills his core.

Part of him is unsure he even hears it, the lull of the nearest planet’s hum the only definite song. He’s sure it’s Mars, because it beats within his chest as if to say something is coming, but it never reaches the climax.

It must be... It must be Mars.

Yet, he still turns toward the pitch and finds _him_ there. And he is smiling as he wears frowning brows, watching the Captain of the Atlas with uncontained affection, gloved hand offering itself for Shiro to take.

Those gentle fingertips are a lifeline.

His body suddenly feels lighter and his lips quirk upward, legs tugging him into a sprint as he hopelessly reaches for the true Black Lion, and Keith — _oh, Keith —_ laughs like music, even if there is no sound, amused by his eagerness.

It is desire, nothing less.

The soft gaze morphs into wide-eyed shock as he moves closer, and whatever calm he feels is sinking into his gut as he reaches out for the man with both arms, pace slowing to a halt as he finds that the alabaster completing a false limb is nowhere to be seen. There is only a moment of inconclusiveness as he looks away from the culmination of matter before him, left hand searching along the void where a prosthesis should be.

But as the body of the _one thing_ that has ever been able to save him lurches forward to gain his attention, he finds what is missing, hand and fist and materialized blade having carved their way through the muscle and bone of the black paladin’s chest.

Shiro’s fear has never been truer as he moves to take him in his arm, fingertips grasping for hues that flutter uncontrollably as his body begins to stiffen beneath the pressure of the spheres around him, and he observes lifelessly as hands other than his own wrap around Keith’s torso — the triumphant visage of Haggar only feeds his despair.

The Black Lion falls further away, the smile on his lips kissed red with his blood.

Shiro can do nothing, and it only serves as a reminder that nothing is all he has ever done.

For the first time since he’d found himself suspended, water wells like drops of dew upon the lashes of his eyes.

His sorrows are endless.

There is the pull, the tear of claws along his back, across his chest as he watches his dearest friend fade. And he knows then that he will never be able to do justice for the one he loves; no matter how hard he tries, he is nothing but defeated.

The space in which his right arm once occupied sears as though it’s aflame, and he is incapacitated once again, the groundless medium on which he collapses carrying his remains as he writhes amongst the celestial bodies.

And, options exhausted, there is naught left for Shiro to do but scream.

The sound of his anguish is deafening, and he had never believed anguish to have a sound.

The vibrations within his lungs speak of his howl, fleshy chords of his throat having worn to the point of damage, raw and painful as he clutches his chest; if anything can console him, it is the feeling of his inconsistent breaths heaving beneath the palms of his hands.

Still, he hears nothing.

And no one else would, either.

As he looks to the vast blackness of the galaxy, he feels betrayed. He’s sworn to protect her fragile planets and temperamental constellations, leaving his heart heavy with every grain of stardust that touches his soul as he gives until there isn’t anything left, but it doesn’t take heart to understand the divine language of the universe; she does not give back, not when she has already created so much.

It is always what one cares for most that cuts deepest.

He would readily give anything for clarity, for a sign that there is more to his existence than the ensuing bitterness of loss growing within him; how emptiness can fill so much room inside of him is a humor he hasn’t the mirth for.

If there is so much as mercy, he finds it in the sudden, steady sound of mechanical beeping in the back of his mind.

It’s a note he cannot define, there and gone in a mere second on Earth, but it spurs a tranquil exhalation of breath — and he finds himself losing consciousness.

Shiro swears he can feel his very being ebbing away as his eyes flutter closed once more.

And then—

_“Shiro.”_

And then, he opens them to the sound of a soft croon.

The room is inexplicably dim, save for the light of the moon behind the cracks in the window blinds and the flickering of moving green lines across the screens of hospital machinery illuminating faint outlines, a steady staccato filling the room with the reassurance of a heartbeat. The floaters that follow his line of sight leave him blinking uncontrollably for a moment, each flutter of lashes bringing attention to the wetness of his eyes. It takes him a while to come to, but as he is pulled into reality, arms wind themselves around him; their hold inescapable, but somehow freedom, all the same.

There are warm, soft breaths kissing his temples, and they remind him of summer nights he spent wandering the Garrison years ago — yearning for something more than the compacted dust beneath his feet, something more than just the image of the moon slowly searching the sky for the sun. Squinting away the tears clouding his vision, he understands that he doesn’t have to wonder if the satellite ever found what it was looking for, because the sight of dark hair adorned with bandages tells him that the very star has been in its presence the entire time.

Keith had found him and brought him home.

It’s minutes before he realizes that he is speaking to him.

His words seem like nothing but radio static, far away and barely understood despite the fact that his sharp collar is pressed into Shiro’s cheek, the rumble of his chest and even beat calming his panic; they are comfort, a lullaby that wakes him instead of beckoning him to slumber. The Captain noses further into the hollow of the other’s throat, breathing in the scent of medical antiseptic and iron, the thrum of the Black Lion’s jugular quivering against his cheek.

His pulse is heavenly.

“Found you.”

Keith’s voice is tired — dragging with exhaustion and sleepless nights — but his hands are warm around Shiro’s shoulders, his fingertips are a tender touch as they card through his hair and travel the column of his throat, and they remind him of the war they have _finally_ won.

The other shifts slightly on the hospital bed, and the Captain thinks he’s disturbed the injuries left behind, but selfishly he cages the one whom has always come to his rescue — grasps him closely as he slowly forgets the things he’s seen. It is too much, after all they have done, to hold onto misery even after he awakes.

Shiro doesn’t bother thinking anymore, doesn’t attempt to dissect the tremor within his bones that his dreams leave behind, doesn’t weave through the cryptic subliminal messages his consciousness scatters like cookie crumbs into the deep forest; he doesn’t even whisper an apology Keith’s way.

They understand each other, and the last thing those powerful, violet eyes want is to see him begging for forgiveness as though the world has ever asked _him_ for it.

Instead, he leans into soft lips that press to his forehead — the silently conveyed message like the promise of peace — and loosens his limbs around the paladin lying weary upon the thin mattress. It’s cold, even with blankets layered high atop them, but it ceases to matter when he’s being held by something so warm.

It isn’t about the instability of his mind or how deep the Black Lion’s scars run; all at once, his awakening becomes about _them_ , and that something inside of their souls that has no name.

“You found me.”

There is that musical laughter he loves following his words, weighed with the gravel of a parched throat and tugging at his very heartstrings.

He looks up and into lidded eyes for the first time that night, staring at him with concern that seems only to appear when they are together, and administers a remedy all his own.

Keith sighs against his lips and Shiro thinks it to be the first time he’s touched the cosmos.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to leave comments! And come visit me on [Tumblr](https://birdsandivory.tumblr.com) so we can talk about the boys!


End file.
